


Like Real People Do

by insomniabug



Series: Smol & Tol drabbles [1]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: F/M, but he's knee deep in his cover, mentions of Napoleon, this movie completely owns my ass now
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 09:12:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4619793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/insomniabug/pseuds/insomniabug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The one where our spies come across a wall taller than even Illya can climb.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Real People Do

Illya knows what she’s going to say even before she says it.

“No.”

Gaby raises an eyebrow, arms crossed and already prepared for a fight. She and Illya, and Napoleon, have been partners for a couple weeks now, so she had already guessed as to what his initial response would be. And while his protectiveness is all very nice and sweet, this is her mission too, and if Napoleon can get over his preconceived notion that she needs coddling, so can Illya.

“Give me a lift.”

“I said _no_.”

She rolls her eyes. "Illya, this wall is bigger than even you can climb, so lift me up.” He still doesn’t move, instead crosses his arms over his chest to match hers. She can see the beginning tap of his fingers against his jacket, and feels like she’s racing to defuse a ticking time bomb.

“I do not like this idea. It is not safe.”

She rests her hands on her hips, tilts her chin up defiantly. For all she and Solo like to joke about his quickness to violence, Gaby is also always one hundred percent geared up for a fight. Pride momentarily swells in his chest before he quells it. Now is not the time _to_ _pine_ , as Solo would say, and which Illya knows is exactly what he’s doing now as he looks at her tiny flaming body.

"Napoleon is already somewhere on the other side.”

“But I will not be.” He angrily glares at the wall blocking him from completing the mission himself, before looking back at her, face softening to an almost childlike sadness. "I…am not comfortable when I cannot see you. It makes me nervous, and I do not like feeling nervous.”

The words float before them, agonizing and bursting with longing. Illya does not regret saying them, and neither does she in hearing them. He’s gotten better at expressing his feelings, verbalizing his worries instead of smashing vulnerable furniture to pieces; she likes to think she’s had a hand in that.

“Listen, _Peril_ ,” she uses Solo’s nickname in hopes it’ll get him annoyed enough to snap back to the mission. “I may not be as experienced as you, but I am not defenseless.  I know how to fight.” His eyes lose some of their apprehension, an almost mirthful look replacing it. He absently rubs at the fading bruise at the base of his jaw, one she had given him in their combined lessons of martial arts and Russian.

“Yes, you are a quick study.” He praises her, and she feels her ears already turning red.

Intuitively feeling his reluctance weaken, Gaby raises her hand, the fake pearl faintly glimmering in the dim moonlight. They don’t talk about why she still wears it, like they don’t talk about a lot of things, but accept it for what is is; always there.

“Besides, I won’t be completely alone.“

He steps closer, and her neck strains uncomfortably as he towers over her. She curses the mission appropriate saddle shoes on her feet, wishing for nothing more than to climb on a chair or coffee table to be, if not taller, at least eye level with him. The heat of his gaze counteracts the coldness of his hands now gripping her shoulders. His ice blue eyes lock onto hers with a laser focus, like the way she’s seen him look down the scope of a rifle. The intensity steals her breath, just like it always does.

“If you see danger, you run. I do not care if you leave Cowboy behind. You run, and I will find you.” He whispers, voice low and heavily accented.

Gaby nods, not trusting her voice to respond as evenly as she’d like. His eyes always do that to her, make her throat dry and her stomach tight in a most inconvenient way. She’s an independent woman; a professional spy under the British government for heaven’s sake. A man’s eyes, especially those of an overbearing and slightly psychotic man, should not make her knees turn to melted butter.

There’s a familiar pause, an unsteady exhale, as his eyes then flicker down to her lips. She licks them, she can’t help it. Not when he looks at her like that. For a moment she thinks he’s going to do it, finally lean down and close the distance, like she too has been unable to do, but he doesn’t. He is still hesitant, still scared; and to be honest, so is she. And now is not the time for _almosts_ and _maybes_.

In the space between heartbeats, she’s suddenly airborne as he lifts her from behind, hands heavy and secure on her hips. Her fingers immediately scramble to find purchase on the top of the wall, trusting him to hold her steady. She’s suddenly relieved she wore the loose non-designer capri pants and tunic she purchased on her own instead of the tight yellow Givenchy dress Illya insisted would flatter the slight tan she’s acquired on their mission.

“I don’t want to hear one crack about my weight.” Gaby calls down to him, angry words with no actual bite in them. She knows he would never, but needs to find a way to smother the tiny tendrils of fear curling in her belly…and an ill temper was always her best form of armor. Maybe Napoleon was right; she and Illya were more alike then either realized.

“Sie sind so leicht wie eine feder, bärchen.” The sound of her native language on his tongue makes her momentarily lose grip on the ledge, but she immediately recovers, his fingers tightening against her thighs to compensate for her slip. With one last heave, he pushes her up onto the small ledge on top of the wall. Laying low in case of watching guards, she looks back down at him, briefly satisfied with her position above him.

“Увидимся.” Her words drift down to him, hoping he’ll take heart in them, and before she loses her nerve, like a cat, swiftly jumps to the ground.

Illya hears her land on the other side, listens for her soft tread across the ground. Out of his sight and into danger. Without thinking, his fist strikes out at the dividing wall, and he grunts in satisfaction. Physical pain was always more comforting to him than emotional. Rubbing his knuckles, he stalks back to their surveillance van, where he keeps a close and constant eye on her little red dot.

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to this song on repeat while writing. Maybe it doesn't fit, but it's the feeling I had while writing.
> 
> Translations (taken from google translate so sorry if they are wrong) are "you are light as a feather, little bear" and "see you soon."


End file.
